


The Shout of Shadows

by VictoriaSkyeMarsters



Category: Vanguards of Viridor
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, M/M, Magic, Slave Trade, Slow Burn, animal to human transfiguration, one of the characters isn't even human yet, so slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23667046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaSkyeMarsters/pseuds/VictoriaSkyeMarsters
Summary: Rael is used to a hard life. He lives in his little fishing village, in his little fishing shack, and dreams of a day when he can escape his cruel father. His only companion, his only friend, is a fat grey cat, gifted to him by a couple of pirates. A strange occurrence, no doubt. But not as strange as what happens next.
Relationships: Rael/Zedd
Kudos: 2





	The Shout of Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the Vanguards of Viridor universe, a year after the events of the third book.  
> Be wary, Rael lives with an abusive father, and that's not even the worst thing that happens to him in this chapter. (Yikes.)

Rael woke to the same sounds that greeted him every morning: a mixture of pleasant and dreary noises. A trill of chirping birds whistled from beyond the paneless window of the fishing shack, and a loud, steady purr, made by the grey cat asleep against his neck, lured him from a dark dream, which had featured slithering shadows and anguished howls. Purrs and trills were the pleasant greetings of a new day, but Rael found that the dreadfulness of the dreary reliably outweighed any pleasantness. 

The noises of dread came solely from the man with whom Rael shared the little shack. Said man grunted as sunlight pierced through the rotting wall planks, and belched in discontent as his whiskey bottle proved itself empty. But the worst of the noise was always the shattering of glass when the man threw the bottle towards the corner of the shack where Rael slept.  
The man was Rael’s father, and his aim—unluckily for Rael—was true, so when the bottle shattered, it did so directly above Rael’s head. Glass spit across the dirty floor in an explosion of sharp and loud, and that was how Rael fully found his wakefulness for the day, as he did most days. 

The cat, who had moments ago been curled against his neck, hissed in the direction of the teeteringly drunken father before leaping through the window. She would join Rael later, once he was free of the shack and the violent fisherman’s attention, but for now, he was left on his own. He always thought it funny how the birds chirped continuously outside, oblivious to his low-grade terror as his father staggered towards him. It was a low-grade terror only because, when faced with the same threats repeatedly, one becomes numb enough to not tremble or cry. But Rael did consistently flinch with every drop of a heavy-booted step, and stood so lightly that he was prepared to flee through the window, same as the cat. 

His father reached him, a dark shadow of a man, like the horror from his dream, while the birds chirped steadily, singing their happy morning song. He’d been forced to jump through the window on previous occasions, and was ready to do so again if his father reached for him, but to Rael’s surprise, he did no such thing. His hands—which were large and weathered and so accustomed to balling into fists that, even in their relaxed state, they curled slightly in on themselves—remained at his sides. His mouth, obscured by a wiry, unkempt beard, pulled into a grimace, a slash of meanness that was familiar, but not threatening enough to make Rael retreat. Not yet. 

“You’re to be back early today,” his father said, and Rael had to actively steel himself against the onslaught of whiskey-soured breath. It was not even a good whiskey, brewed at the Guardians’ Guild, but a despicable sludge made by Fisherman Don, who lived down the dirt path of their tiny village. It seemed every fisherman in the vicinity spent more time drinking than actually fishing, except for Rael. Maybe if the whiskey available didn’t taste—and smell—like death, it wouldn’t be so. Maybe he’d already be a drunk like all the rest.

“How early, sir?” he asked, for he knew their definitions ran divergent on most things. 

His father scrunched up his face in a clear demonstration of hard thinking. Unless a question was put to him involving alcohol and how much of it he could chug in a day’s time, he had a difficult time answering even the most basic of inquiries. “Promptly at sunset,” he resolved, and Rael hid his disbelief expertly. 

It was a surprise, hearing his father wished him home at sunset. Many fish only presented themselves to Rael’s traps at dusk, and he often remained by the river hours after the sun retired for this very reason. He’d gone entire days without a full net before, only to find luck at sunset. And as the price for returning home with a meager bucket of fish usually involved his father’s fists, the instruction to return early made him wary. But he said, “Yes, sir,” all the same, and slunk past his father to the cooking pot on the other side of the shack. The fire it hung above was perpetually dying, but there was a small, rickety table in the corner beside it, and on that table was a worn, straw basket that held a few stale biscuits within its punctured frame. Rael pinched a biscuit for himself, swallowed a mouthful of tinny tasting water from the half-empty pitcher, and crossed quickly to the door. 

The structure in which Rael lived could not possibly be defined as anything but a shack—not as a house, and certainly not as a home. It was, in all considerations, a shack, with a door barely hanging on by rusty hinges, a floor that was as filthy as it was splintery, and a roof, which, like the walls, was rotting. It was also small. Smaller than one would imagine it being. It’s width in one direction stretched as far as four of his fathers when he was sprawled on the floor in a drunken state. In the other direction, it was only the length of three drunken fathers. And while his father was tall, his height hardly loaned itself to being enough with which to measure the size of a living space. Shared between two grown men—Rael had turned eighteen not two full moons past, and though perhaps not fully grown, was grown enough to consider himself such—the shack was always stifling. Most of the time, this was bad, as he had no space to escape, but times such as this one, when he could reach the door in only a few moments, he found the shack nearly agreeable. Just a few steps and he was at the door, pulling on his sandals—which were a size too small—and his jacket—which he didn’t necessarily need, but liked to have in case the breeze off the river chilled him. Then he cast a farewell wave to his father before the door swung shut behind him, and he was free. 

A year and some months ago, his father would have joined him in his work. Granted, he would have griped at everything Rael did, but he would have at least cared about keeping up the visage of being a proper fisherman. But these days, Rael was the sole coin maker of their household—shackhold—and no matter how many fish he managed to catch, it was never enough to support both his desire to eat and wear fitting shoes and his father’s desire to singlehandedly drink his way through Viridor. 

Since he’d been old enough to haul the nets himself, his father had been steadily bowing out from performing any daunting tasks. And after last year’s plague, which came in the form of the Winged Blight, a flying monster that snatched up several fishermen, some chickens, and a mule, Rael’s father finally deserted any semblance of being helpful. When all in the village had been in danger, he’d sent his son to the river by himself and never once joined him again. 

Rael couldn’t exactly complain about the change. He had far better luck catching fish when his father’s bellows were not disturbing the water. And most of the time, it was peaceful to be alone. There were other fishermen who shared the river, but if one good thing could be said about fishermen, it was that they liked to keep to themselves while doing their business.  
That is not to say Rael spent his long days completely alone. There was also the cat. 

In the time of the Winged Blight, Rael had met a number of fascinating characters. First, there had been Vivid and Scorch, two traveling warriors who came to slay the monster. The latter had been entertaining, tall, handsome, and good-humored, but it was the former who’d impressed him the most. Vivid had been small and quiet, but there was a fierceness about him that commanded Rael’s interest. When he announced they would vanquish the Winged Blight, Rael believed him. And when he slipped his dagger into Rael’s unsuspecting hand—“You can’t stay out here utterly unprotected, like a fool”—before turning away on his horse, Rael had known in that moment what he wanted his life to be. Or rather, what he didn’t want it to be. Wasted. 

He’d kept the dagger carefully hidden from his father and began to spend more time daydreaming about life beyond fishing. The truth was, he didn’t have many ideas concerning life outside his village. He knew of only a few professions: fisherman, whiskey maker, trader, and monster slayer. Because of this, his daydreams usually consisted of himself as an Important Slayer, traveling like Vivid and Scorch and defeating all the monsters in his path. It wasn’t very realistic, but it was amusing to imagine and helped wile away the hours. 

Shortly after that first strange encounter, he found himself faced with two more newcomers to the village, a redheaded fellow and his smooth talking companion. While they’d not been nearly as inspiring as Vivid and Scorch—and he’d suspected them both to be pirates—they’d been kind and brave, and best of all, had brought with them a cat. It was this cat—grey and soft and moderately robust—who returned to Rael’s side now, as he made his way around the shack, where he’d untangled the nets the night before. 

Since their first meeting, which involved the cat appearing mysteriously and curling herself possessively around him, they had been as inseparable as possible with the threat of his father looming over both their heads. The cat, whom Rael had affectionately dubbed “Grace” because of her ability to balance on his shoulders as he moved about with his fishing net, would spend the day with him by the river, and then, at night, would wait just beyond the window until his father collapsed from drink. Then she would sneak inside the shack and cuddle up with Rael, on his chest or by his face. She was a comfort, daily and nightly, and though she could do little but hiss from the window when his father was in one of his rages, he still felt oddly protected in her presence. 

He was aware that having a cat as a best friend was less than normal and far from ideal to the minds of most, but he could never bring himself to care. It was not as if possible company was bursting at the seams in the village. The population along the dirt road was scant, and each fisherman was either as old as his father or older, and none had children. There was no one for Rael to find companionship with, except for Grace, and she made a very good companion. Had he the option, he wasn’t convinced he would trade her in for a human his age. A human would surely dislike his tendency to sing as he threw his nets into the water, or his habit of talking in a steady stream as he sorted through his catches and tossed them into buckets. Grace never minded, and more than that, even when his hands were soiled with the stench of fish, she let him pet her head, and always reciprocated with affectionate nuzzles. Whether she was only after a fishy treat or genuinely liked him, Rael never could decide, and neither did he care. She was his and he was hers, and that was all that mattered. 

His father had tried, a time or two, to wring her neck, but each attempt had resulted in deep scratches across his face. Now, Grace stayed far away from him until he was unconscious, and the drunk stayed far away from Grace. Rael envied her the option of distance, when every night he had to leave the riverside and return home to the shack, or else spend the night outside. There was a forgotten shed, dilapidated and hidden by wild growth, which he sometimes occupied on nights he absolutely could not bear the company of his father. On nights such as these, usually following a bloody nose or blackened eye, Rael would flee from the shack with Grace, and they would find shelter a ways down a side road, in the shed. If it weren’t for all the bleeding that usually accompanied nights spent there, Rael would consider them holidays. He would build a fire and retrieve the blankets long ago hidden within the shed for these very occasions, and Grace would climb up to his shoulders and curl around his neck, draping herself lazily. Her purr loud in his ears, he would temporarily forget about his reason for being there, and simply enjoy the crackling blaze and soft fur against his skin. 

He’d not needed to spend a night in the shed for several weeks, but his mind returned to it now as he hefted the heavy net over his shoulder and began dragging it past the other ramshackle shacks, towards the river. He wondered if tonight would be a shed night. It was possible his father, by the day’s end, would forget his order for Rael’s early return, and upon seeing him with less than his usual haul, would grow enraged. But it would be an even greater risk to disobey the order—forgotten or otherwise—and not return at sunset. Rael shook his head as he spread the fishing net out on the riverbank. The ground was damp from the thick fogs that rolled in every morning from the sea, and his toes were already chilled. He tried not to fear the future of his day, since nothing could be done about it, regardless of how much he worried. Besides, a day spent catching fish was disagreeable enough without adding to it the terror of a future beating. 

So he hummed a tune softly to himself as his hands drifted over the net, double checking for tangles that might have twisted into existence on the short journey from shack to river, while Grace pounced playfully at his hands a few times, and then, growing bored, lay in the center of the net. 

“No,” Rael scolded with a smile as he swatted her away. She answered by rolling onto her back and lifting her paws in an invitation to be attacked. “Move, Grace,” he laughed, risking her claws in order to land a light swipe against her fluffy backside. “It’s work time, not play time.” 

She didn’t look as if she approved of Rael’s priorities, but she moved all the same, walking at a snail’s pace until her paws were no longer commandeering the net. Rael took the opportunity to lift up the great net, and after waiting a few more moments for Grace to move safely away, he heaved the heavy thing into the water. The action resulted in a splash, and the cat flashed put-upon eyes of sparkling yellow at Rael. He could see a drop of water hanging from one of her whiskers and he smiled apologetically. In short order, he was forgiven, and after eating his biscuit—of which he shared more than a few pieces with the cat, and could partially be blamed for her continuously round rump—he resumed his work as a fisherman in his father’s stead. 

It was boring work, waiting to pull in the net, and when the work wasn’t boring, it was difficult. The net was heavy enough when dry, but when it had been soaking in the water for hours and was caught up with dozens of fish, it took muscular arms and a strong back to pull it ashore. As Rael repeated this process several times a day, his body was sleek with definition. He wasn’t as strong as his father, but he was well on his way to having muscles worth bragging about—not that he’d have anyone to brag to; he was convinced Grace wouldn’t care. Neither did she care about his recent need to shave once every two months—a fact he was embarrassingly proud of—nor the hypnotically dark brown of his eyes, or the sunny warmth of his skin, darkened to a toasty brown from a life of outdoor work. 

Had someone besides Grace been there to observe his fitness, and loveliness of the eyes, they would have also found satisfaction in the softness of his mouth and boyish mop of his hair, russet hued and prone to growing quickly, despite how often he tried to keep it trimmed short. Also to be admired was the line of his nose, a suitable center to an altogether beautiful face. His father, too, had been beautiful once, long before the death of his wife—and with her, their second born babe—had destroyed his last ounce of goodness. But unlike his father, Rael was completely unaware of his beauty. He knew he was strong because he could handle the heavy fishing nets, but when he glanced in the looking glass, all he recognized was the sporadic need to shave, and nothing more. When one had no one to compare oneself to, and no one to bestow them with compliments, how was one to know whether their appearance was pleasing? So Rael didn’t know, as he hummed softly to Grace, that he was an unusual prize, and that, were his company more than a cat, he would be considered undeniably brag-worthy. 

With a song on his lips and worry lodged in his chest, Rael passed the day much like any other; that is to say, he hauled the net in, collected the fish, then hauled the net back out several times, until the sun began to sink and it was time to return to the shack. It was his wish to walk slowly, but his feet were following the direction of his nerves and not his desire, so his return took only several short minutes, and that was including the multiple trips back and forth as he fetched his buckets of collected fish. Even without the after-dusk fishing, he’d done well, and could not think his father would be terribly hateful, considering he was the one who’d cut his day short. But Rael also knew there was no such thing as predicting his father’s moods, and he was still in the dark concerning why he’d been ordered to return early in the first place. The uncertainty left him with a sour stomach as he approached his crooked front door. He’d said goodbye to Grace after hanging the net over the table around the side of the shack, and she’d licked the inside of his palm before setting up her usual position beneath the window, where she would doze until it was safe to join Rael for bed. Without her at his side, he felt shaky and apprehensive, and it took several moments of preparation before he was ready to enter. 

The door creaked open unevenly, only a few hard yanks away from breaking completely from its hinges. Rael walked inside with his head bowed and was greeted with the familiar smell of putrid wood and whiskey, and the unfamiliar smell of pipe smoke. The air was thick with cloves and some unnamable, earthy herb, and when he lifted his head, a strange man was taking up a hefty portion of the limited space, a man he’d never met, and who was definitely not from the fishing village. He was large, with a blubbery belly and bald head. His eyes were beady, and his fists, like his father’s, seemed to prefer the coziness of a closed fist as opposed to a relaxed hand. He did not wear the garb of a fisherman, which usually consisted of loose linen trousers and sandals, and instead wore a supple leather vest, tightly laced boots, and a holster strapped to his thick thigh, showing off a dagger bigger than the one Rael wore hidden on his own person. In his hand was a smoking pipe, and from his thin lips streamed a cloying cloud that made Rael’s eyes water. 

Beside the strange man stood his father, wavering on less than sober feet. It was not an unusual scene to enter upon: a nearly empty bottle of Don’s whiskey was on the table beside the water pitcher, and the shack looked to be in its usual, filthy state. The only odd thing—excluding the newcomer—was the highly unusual coin purse clinched tightly in his father’s hand. It’d been a long time since Rael had seen his father hold onto a purse so fat with coin without immediately upending it at Don’s doorstep in a plea for his newest brew.

The suspicious income left Rael with a dry throat, which he cleared with a cough into his elbow. 

“Is he sickly?” asked the stranger, his fat neck creasing with the turn of his head. “You said he was of sound health, Bernard.”

Bernard set a glare so spiteful upon his son, it was nearly felt as a punch to the gut. “He’s healthy,” he defended, and it may have been the kindest thing he’d ever said. “Look at him. Solid, and with warmth in his cheeks. Healthy as can be, like I told you.” Bernard did not slur when he spoke, but he did continue to sway back and forth, like a sailor fresh off his ship. His finger, however, was steady as it pointed to Rael. “I’m true to my word, you’ll find, if you take a gander for yourself.”

The stranger did take a gander, as suggested, reaching him in three confident strides. He peered down like Rael was some outlandish spectacle, like he was the Winged Blight that must be vanquished, and Rael paled beneath his rude gaze. Despite clues that may have been obvious to others more experienced with the world, he had no idea what was happening. He stared back at the man with his face carefully blank, blinking often as the pipe smoke drifted into his eyes, and wondered why the state of his health was being questioned by a man he’d never met. 

Disliking the idea of someone thinking him sickly, and certain his father wished him to appear strong, he spoke out in his own defense to say, “I am healthy, sir,” and, “I am seldom ever sick.” His words were swiftly met with a stinging slap across his face. The force of it was so strong, his head whipped to the side and his mouth fell open with a surprised grunt. 

“He speaks out of turn,” the stranger commented drily. 

“Only very occasionally,” promised Bernard, gripping the coin purse tight to his chest, as if afraid it might be taken away at any moment. He didn’t move from his spot, but did manage to glare threateningly at Rael over the stranger’s shoulder. “And he responds well to correction.”

The man studied the palm of his hand. The skin was pink from the slap, and Rael wondered who was smarting worse from the blow. He could not promise it was himself, for he had endured heartier smacks. Slowly, he shifted his head to stare straight ahead, catching sight of a grey blur in the corner of his eye, where Grace was lurking in the window. 

“Is it true, boy?” the stranger asked, his beady eyes fastened to Rael’s face. “Do you respond well to correction? You may speak.”

“It’s true,” he answered. He did not stutter his words, but his voice was little more than a fearful rasp as he met the eyes of the man who looked all too ready—even eager—to hit him again. 

“What did I say?” asked Bernard, wobbling over to the table to fetch his whiskey. For a moment, he looked torn between the purse in his hand and the bottle, until he realized he could hold both. “You’ll never find a better offer.”

“Silence, old man,” the stranger warned, though, to Rael, the two men looked to be near the same age, and one had no business calling the other “old”. “I don’t need you to teach me my trade.”

Bernard shrugged and glugged down the rest of his whiskey. This time, when the bottle shattered, it was not because he’d thrown it at Rael, but because he’d dropped it carelessly. There was more broken glass on the floor of the shack than in the bin of a tavern. Rael would need to sweep before bed, and even then, he may be tempted to keep his shoes on. As to the “business” and “offers” of which his father and the stranger spoke, he could not yet foresee their relevance to himself. He was too tired from working, too afraid of being hit again, and too sheltered to realize life could be so much worse than being the son of a drunken fisherman. That is, until the next words were spoken, for while Rael was naïve, he wasn’t stupid.

“You look well enough to fetch a decent price,” admitted the stranger, “but how do you feel?” He grasped Rael’s arm and squeezed, and it was suddenly all too clear why his health had been in question. Rael’s eyes flew to the purse in his father’s hand, and then to the fingers wrapped around his bicep. He was glad he wore his jacket, only so he didn’t have to suffer the touch of the man’s bare skin against his own. The man who had every intention of selling him. The man to whom he’d already been sold by his father for a sack of coin.

Rael no longer heard the birds chirping, neither did he anticipate the pleasure in hearing Grace purr in his ear at bedtime. All he could hear was the stranger’s heavy breathing as he squeezed over his arms, and all he could feel were thick fingers sliding into his mouth and over his teeth, checking the integrity of his new purchase. He did not bite down until Grace jumped into the shack and hissed, and then he clenched his teeth around the probing fingers, right as his father kicked her in the side. 

The stranger—the slaver—wailed and pulled his hand back, then landed such a mighty blow upon Rael’s cheek that he crumpled. His body hit the glass-strewn floor with a thud, but it was the kick from his father that made him cry out. He looked up with tearful eyes as Grace was thrown violently out the window, and sobbed when he heard her yowl in pain. Soon to appear above him was the slaver, whose name, though called out several times in the scuffle by Bernard, was never worth remembering, and slid from Rael’s memory. He wrapped his giant hand around Rael’s throat and lifted him from the floor. When he shook him, shards of glass rained down from the places they’d stuck in his hair and clothes and flesh. The fingers that had been bitten were held before him, displaying blood Rael could also taste on his tongue. He spat, trying to deliver as much back to the slaver as he could. Even though he considered spitting a nasty habit, it was not as nasty as slaving. 

“Bite me again, boy, and I’ll pull out every tooth in your head,” the slaver growled, and Rael had no reason not to believe him, so he nodded, as much as he could while being choked. The slaver released him and he fell to the floor, coughing and grasping at his neck, as if his fingers could soothe the angry marks left on his skin. 

Behind them, his father was declaring boldly, “You can’t have the coin back. The deal was already made!” To which the slaver just grimaced and answered, “You couldn’t have him back if you begged.” He grabbed Rael by the hair and pulled him flush. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he warned, and Bernard held the coin purse with more love than he’d ever shown Rael. 

Rael stared at his father in open disdain until the slaver began dragging him back by the hair, towards the door of the shack, which was only a few steps away. Then he had no time for staring, for he was busy kicking and punching and screaming, and doing everything in his power to keep himself from being taken by the man with the hand fisted securely against his scalp.

“Stop!” he pleaded. “Stop! Please!” And for a few moments, his cries blotted out all other sound, including the angry hiss of the cat as she vaulted through the window and sank her claws into Bernard’s back. 

“Grace!” Rael yelled as she was thrown into the wall by his father. The force of the throw must have hurt her badly, for her body was visibly affected when it felt the impact. It appeared, at first, as if she was thrown so hard her body flattened, stretching longer than usual. Rael struggled harder against the slaver, desperate to reach her, but the man only knocked him solidly on the head, making him droop long enough to lose sight of Grace. When he craned his head back up, and as the slaver was struggling to pick up the uneven door so it could swing open—an unexpected plus side to its brokenness—the cat was gone. 

In her place was a man who’d not been there only a second before, whose hair was long and streaming and grey around a pale face. Rael gasped, and the slaver holding him let go, in order to pry the door off its hinges with both hands. 

“In the name of the Gods, what are you?” his father asked, cowering away from the pale man, whose body was slim and naked, and whose eyes were a sparkling yellow. 

Free of the slaver’s grip, Rael rushed forward in search of Grace, but did not see her in the shack, just the man whose face was young and smooth up close, and whose eyes were wide with shock when they landed on Rael. 

“What have you brought into my home?” his father asked, slamming into Rael and sending him flying towards the naked man.  
The man caught him, but was quick to discard him to the side, his lips baring white teeth as he directed a terrifying hiss at Bernard. He raised his hand, hissed indecipherable words beneath his breath, and sparks of flame shot from his fingertips. 

The slaver, unable to open the door in his panic—and muttering something along the lines of “Blasted elementals!”—lifted a mighty, booted foot, and kicked it open. The door went flying off its hinges, but before the slaver could leave, the grey-haired man crossed the shack in a flurry of lightning-fast steps and took hold of him with smoking fingers. He slammed the slaver’s head against the doorframe and threw his stunned body into the dirt outside. When he whipped back around, Rael inhaled sharply, for his irises were nearly alive with sparks of swirling yellow, and his long hair floated back with some invisible force. So mesmerized was he, he did not notice the fire picking up with fury around him until the heat was licking up the back of his neck. 

“My cat!” he yelled. “She might be inside somewhere.” There were few places Grace would be able to hide in the small space, but he knew hiding was one of her many talents, and though it was very likely she’d escaped out the window again, he would never forgive himself if she burned. 

The man looked at him curiously—as if processing his words and not understanding them—before he took hold of Rael and tossed him from the burning shack. Rael landed beside the slaver with a huff, and then was back on his feet and heading to the doorless doorway. Within, he could see the grey-haired man standing over his father, his fingers sparking with more flames. It was clear to Rael that the man had no intention of allowing Bernard to escape.

Much later, looking back at the memory with no more love in his heart for his father than for the slaver whose name he’d forgotten, Rael could not name why, exactly, he’d forced himself to speak in the next few seconds, when he yelled with a smoke-hoarse voice, “Don’t kill him! He’s my father!” But he did, and the naked man’s fingers stopped pouring flames, and he took Bernard by the wiry beard and dragged him unceremoniously through the broken glass and kicked him out of the burning shack. 

His father saved—though knocked out by the man purposefully slamming his head into the doorframe as they passed through—Rael returned his immediate attention to Grace, for whom he screamed at the top of his lungs. The grey-haired man took hold of him, flashed his yellow eyes, which were no longer swirling, but were still sparkling and strange, and proceeded to bury his face in Rael’s neck, his arms draping over his shoulders. A vibration much like a purr began against his throat and Rael’s eyes rounded in shock. 

“Erm,” he said, his hand landing awkwardly on the man’s bare shoulder. 

The man nuzzled roughly against his neck, then pulled back. His hair was in his face, and he swatted it out of his eyes with stiff hands, then looked at Rael with a familiar, put-upon gaze. 

“Oh, Gods,” Rael whispered. “Grace?”


End file.
